The Four Musketeers
by Kitty in a Cornfield
Summary: A collection of  mis adventures involving our four favorite heroes. Chapter 02, How DO the boys celebrate Easter? Chapter 03, Planchet makes a vegetarian dinner for the boys. Chapter 04, Spring allergies happen at the most inconvenient times.
1. The Little Black Journal

So, there I was, rushing between dentist appointments (braces are a bitch, but add in having to get it undone, get a cavity filled, and then getting wires back on in a matter of four hours, and I almost started crying in the chair), studying for an exam, procrastinating on reading _the Scarlet Letter_ for American Lit class by reading Alexandre Dumas instead, and somewhere in the middle of all the madness, I finally started writing down those vaguely amusing little fanfiction ideas that I've had running through my head for a few months now. Some bookverse, some movieverse (I just love the potential chaos from having our four favorite people living together), probably some OOCishness...some absolute ridiculousness and really silly humor...and hopefully some damn good fiction.

**Disclaimer: Seriously, people. If I actually had anything to do with Alexandre Dumas or the Three Musketeers, then I probably wouldn't be getting corrected for my awful pronunciation of any word that sounds remotely French. Oh, and I Dream of Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair is a poem by Stephen Foster from 1856, which I shamelessly stole for the purposes of amusing myself. That's right, I'm a thief. No, no, it's okay. I can admit it.  
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**The Little Black Journal**

It was well known, though generally not spoken of among his close friends that Aramis was a bit of a ladies ' man. One could suppose that given his penchant for boasting and his readiness to share those things which Aramis considered of a personal nature with anyone who had ears, he was far surpassed in those particular endeavors by his good friend Porthos. Indeed, many a weary, wine filled night was spent rubbing his temples and sharing looks of either disgust, horror, annoyance, or amusement with his comrades over the sheer ridiculousness of Porthos' bragging. The fact was, however, that while Aramis did indulge in activities other than engaging with his close friends or carefully looking over some verse or treatise in his theological studies, he preferred to keep such appointments to himself. Aramis did not _kiss_ and _tell_.

There was one to whom Aramis did entrust his secrets every now and then, however personal they may be. It was the one place where Aramis trusted himself to fully let go, to share his thoughts, the moments of his life as a soldier for France, his desperate hopes for one day reentering the priesthood. As a scholar and an avid reader of anything he could get his hands on, it was hardly an unusual idea that he should keep a journal—though he had to admit that keeping it from Porthos had become a bit of a ridiculous chore from time to time. The man, Aramis reflected one spring day, when he'd had the pleasure of separating Porthos and the husband of a very pretty girl with a rather large bosom, was a bit like a child. A really large child with a gut from drinking too much, an over pronounced sense of fashion and generally lacking in good common sense. In any case, it was here that Aramis found himself creating some of his best work and, he thought modestly, he had written some rather fine verses in his day.

So it was that one sunny day in June, Helene de Chevreuse sat up in her bed with one eyebrow raised quizzically as she eyed the dark haired man sleeping lightly beside her. Never before had she seen this coveted book and she was quite surprised to find that upon his usual quiet arrival at their secluded meeting place, he had indeed composed a verse of her beauty and his affections for her as he had previously promised. Her curiosity had piqued the moment he had pulled the small black book from a pocket, but as he began to regale her with his words, she'd been far too enchanted to care about such a silly little object and her attentions had been drawn elsewhere, much to both their delights. It was not until after they'd both spent themselves in their private meeting, having leisurely stretched on the soft bed and untangled the sheets from about them that Helene's thoughts returned to the book that had accompanied her dear Aramis that afternoon.

He lay beside her, his face soft and childlike as he dozed lightly with an arm draped across her thin waist. It was a welcome vulnerability that she had yet to witness in her lover and one that was perfectly understandable, given his recent return from a long mission far away from their home in Paris and the wound that he had had to recover from on his trip home. She lay beside him, watching the rising and falling of his chest, memorizing the relaxed curves of his face, tracing the shape of his lips with her eyes in a moment of perfect contentment. He'd been so sweet in his dealings with her, so gentle and generous in everything—and when he'd read to her, his voice like red velvet and his words like spun silk. With a quiet sigh of happiness, she carefully slid across the bed, from beneath the grasp of her sleeping lover. She padded across the floor silently, pausing every few steps to be sure that she hadn't inadvertently woken the sleeping form in her bed as she made her way to the table where the little black book sat reverently. Picking it up, she closed her eyes and remembered those fabulous moments earlier, when he'd read to her and they'd fallen into the bed together in a desperate frenzy, before opening the book to regale herself with his words once more.

Oh, she thought to herself, quickly realizing that she'd flipped to the wrong page. Not wanting to intrude on Aramis' privacy, she would've instantly flipped the book closed or gone searching for her particular passage, if only the one that she had opened to wasn't so…interesting. _Oh, my. _Helene glanced back at Aramis in the bed, eyeing him cautiously, before settling herself in the armchair only steps from where she stood. She turned her attentions to the little book, flipping to the next page. Oh my, indeed, she thought, sitting up a little straighter. Turning to another passage, she let out a small gasp. At the next, an eyebrow rose in surprise. When she reached the next passage, she'd found herself curling her legs to her chest, comfortably seated and reading with interest as she paused to glance at the well muscled body she'd become so well acquainted with. She should've stopped reading, she knew, but she just couldn't resist turning the page and continuing, her eyes drinking in every word scrawled in ink like a drunk who'd just traveled through the desert for forty days and had finally happened across a tavern. What a delicious little discovery she'd made!

Aramis was surprised to find that he'd fallen asleep in a bed not his own—he'd had many encounters with the opposite sex over the years and this did not usually happen. Even more surprising to him, however, was that he was alone in the bed. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and let them adjust to the afternoon light that peeked in through the cracks around the curtains, stretching his feline-like form and pushing himself up in the bed with a frown. He scanned the room quickly to find Helene, her figure clad in her thin night dress as she smiled at him from the chair mere feet from the bed. Her blond hair was still tousled from their tumble earlier, falling in a mess of curls about her delicate shoulders and framing her pixie shaped face elegantly, her bright blue eyes shining in the dim light of the room….though her expression was rather curious, he thought. He greeted her with one of his more handsome smiles—the sort of smile that results from a passionate entanglement and with which one only greets his most intimate companion. "What are you doing over there?"

"How many women have you had?" Helene asked him curiously. Aramis' expression immediately fell and he sat, frowning at her. He tried to decide how to approach such a random question that he, by no means, intended to answer.

"What do you mean?" he responded, watching as she shifted in her seat. Helene smiled at him good humouredly.

"How many women have you had?" she repeated. "It's not a hard question, my love. It's quite a simple one, in fact." Aramis' jaw hardened as he tried to determine what had aroused such a question. It was certainly the first time that any woman had asked _that_ of him after they'd spent an afternoon together. He was far more used to hearing his name moaned in his ear during an embrace before being graced with a delicate sigh upon their release. He had grown quite accustomed to that reaction, he reflected idly. So what the devil had brought this on? It took a moment for Aramis to realize that the little black book, the journal that he'd coveted so dearly and hid so well from his prying roommates during the time they'd lived together, was not where he'd left it. Aramis' heart stopped as his eyes fell on the bedside table, free of the object he'd been hoping to find there. His eyes shot back to Helene quickly and grazed over the book tightly clutched in her right hand. Well, Aramis thought, his eyes frozen on the journal…._fuck_.

"What," Aramis began calmly, exhorting all of his effort to keep his voice level. "Are you doing with that?" Normally, he would not have risked bringing such an important item to one of his meetings with Helene—or anyone, for that matter—but after returning from his mission, seeing the physician to be declared fit for duty once again, the impromptu sparring match in the courtyard with Porthos, and wrangling D'Artagnan into cleaning up after his…._horse_? Well, he'd hardly had time to freshen up for his appointment with Helene, let alone to copy down the verse he'd so carefully prepared for her. In his haste, he had taken the little book with him. Something that was, apparently, a mistake.

"You fell asleep," Helene accused him with a light voice, her lips tugged into a small smile. She imagined herself eyeing him like a cat that has just spotted a delicate little mouse. "I wanted to hear your words again." Aramis' heart leapt into action once again when she flipped open the book and looked down at the page, glancing up after a moment in the hopes of seeing Aramis in his panic. She had to admit to herself, Helene was getting quite the evil little amusement out of this situation. "You're quite the wordsmith," she complimented him. "You do have such skill. I count at least five women from your work. Not including me, that is."

"My dear lady," Aramis began, planning how to retrieve his book. "There is no one else but you, nor could there ever be." He stood up and walked over to her, gently guiding her from her chair. She smirked up at him gleefully as she crossed her arms behind her back, the book resting in both hands and out of his reach.

"What about the redhead?" Helene asked him, hoping to get some obvious reaction out of him. Aramis was a man with many skills, however, and Helene was amused to find that staying cool under pressure was _definitely_ one of those skills.

"The redhead?" he asked her with a puzzled expression. Aramis did, of course, remember the redhead. Her name was Arabella and she happened to be the niece of a good doctor friend of his who he occasionally visited to discuss theology. She was a very sweet girl, very beautiful, and she always did love when she and Aramis used to…Helene nodded her head gently.

"The redhead with the green eyes, whose gaze held such brilliance as to see the depths of her soul." Helene told him, paraphrasing what she'd read earlier. Aramis sighed.

"As you said before, my love, I am a writer," Aramis told her. "Writers are slaves to their words. It was merely a verse written on a moonlit night, when the words just deigned to be formed as such. I know of no such lady." Helene searched his gaze, so full of sincerity, and found herself almost believing him. Which was really quite ridiculous, she thought, given what she'd read not too long ago. Aramis risked an almost imperceptible inch closer to her as she quickly thought over what he'd said.

"But what about the girl who smells of lavender?" Helene asked him, referring to another passage she'd read. Ah, Denise. He remembered her very well. The garden where they used to meet was filled with her favorite flower, lavender, and many a time had she graced him with a tender kiss in the embrace of spring morning. Aramis shot her a confused look and shook his head.

"It's only a poem," he told her confidently. "Besides, I can't stand the smell of lavender." With another nearly imperceptible inch toward Helene, he gazed down at her with a gentle assurance. "It means nothing at all." Helene stared into his eyes, unwilling to admit to herself that she was beginning to fall for his words for a second time that day. Still, Helene was not some naïve virgin—she'd been married for four years now. She knew better than believe that she was his one and only. Aramis drifted ever closer to her, closing the distance between them slowly, his hand snaking behind her back.

"Well, what about Jeannie?" she asked him, not at all failing to notice how the space between them had become smaller, nor the slither of warmth that was sliding around her waist. Aramis paused. Jeannie? Yes, he remembered her _very_ well. They'd had a lot of fun together, perhaps more than had really been wise in retrospect. He'd missed her terribly after she'd had to leave Paris to be with her sick uncle.

"No," Aramis said easily. "I know no lady by that name." Helene looked at him skeptically.

"Are you certain?" Helene asked with a frown. "You did seem quite fond of her. 'I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, born like a vapor on the summer; I dream of Jeannie with the daydawn smile, radiant in gladness, warm in winning guile'," she recited. Aramis gazed at her in wonder. Yes, he did remember writing those words, just after dear Jeannie had left him. Oh, how he'd missed her.

"You memorized it?" Aramis asked, surprised and somewhat amused. Helene gave him a serious look, but her voice was light.

"You were asleep for quite a while," she told him with a sigh. "I had to amuse myself somehow." She looked off into the distance before continuing to recite the poem. "'Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour, many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er. Oh! I long for Jeannie and my heart bows low'," Aramis smiled at her humorously, his hand grazing across her arm behind her back as he carefully reached for the book.

"You've a talent for speech, my love," he told her genuinely, feeling victory so close within his grasp. She looked up at him with a broad, proud smile at his compliment.

"I just have one question," Helene declared at last, taking a step back out of his reach at the very last moment possible. Aramis tried to keep his frustration from showing as he turned his full attentions to the stubborn woman before him. She took a quick glance around the room as if to check that they weren't being watched before she leaned toward him conspiratorially, a playful smile on her face. "_How good am I?_"

"…..what?" It was hardly the reaction that Aramis had been expecting, but Helene looked up at him in all seriousness, eagerly awaiting his response to her rather surprising question.

"How good am I?" she repeated. "I mean, you've obviously had experience. Do you have some kind of scale system for measuring technique or something? How do you rate them? Of all your lovers, _how good am I_?" Aramis was rather caught off guard and this time it showed on his face. Helene watched him try to decide how to respond, clearly never having been faced with this question before. Not by a woman, at least.

"You're serious?" he asked her. She frowned.

"Well, of course," she told him.

"Is that really your only concern?" Aramis asked, dumb founded by her questions. She gave him a thoughtful look as though she were considering some kind of mental checklist, before nodding affirmatively to him. He risked starting to close the space between them, his hands resting on her arms comfortingly as they stood mere inches from each other. The scent of her perfume, faint in the afternoon air as he looked down at her, tickled his nose. For a brief second, he saw her uncertainty, her insecurity, flash in her eyes. It was not her only concern, not by a long shot—but at that moment, it seemed like the question that really mattered. She swallowed as she looked up at him, waiting for his response. His earlier quest to retrieve the little black book forgotten, he ran a hand along her jaw line, his fingers whispering across her lips. "You are a woman unparalleled by any other," he answered her truthfully and this time, Helene did believe him. He claimed her lips with his own and felt her respond in turn, her body leaning against his as she carelessly dropped the book she'd been withholding and moved her hands to his chest. The _thud_ of his journal hitting the floor vaguely registered somewhere in Aramis' mind, but as they moved back toward the bed, he found that there were other, far more important things that required his attention at that exact moment.

Helene later reflected that just as her husband had married her for her money and then found himself in the arms of a pretty servant girl, so too was she merely a poem, a pretty verse in a little black book that was not meant to be seen by any but the eyes of its owner. Still, if Aramis continued to kiss her that way, to caress her attentively and please her so completely, she wasn't really sure she should care.

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><p>This actually turned out a bit differently than I'd planned. A lot more of Helene's character revealed itself to me as I was writing, like her insecurity and how the chapter would end. Then, upon rereading it to polish it up, I decided Aramis'...friends...needed a bit more description. I absolutely hate writing poetry, though, so there was no way that was going to happen. All in all, though, what do you think? Good characterizations? Was it fun to read? Consistency? Did it feel at all rushed? Reviews aren't necessary (goodness knows I always have like, five fics open every time I start my internet browser, waiting to be read and reviewed...), but I will love you forever if you do.<p>

Now I get to scurry off and read Nathaniel Hawthorne, but let's be honest, I'll most likely to be thinking about something evil to do to Porthos in another fic...


	2. An Easter Sunday

I've been working on something else and then got in the mood to write something Easter-themed, so I dropped everything else and started writing this. Expect drinking, drugs, rock n' roll, hardcore sex and-wait, sorry, that doesn't come until Thanksgiving. What you will find here is harmless entertainment, rabbits and fine wine shared among good friends. Also, incredibly brief and bordering on nonexistent references to the films _Hop_ and _Harv_eythat you'd probably only recognize if you've seen or know of the films and can easily ignore. That being said, read on.

**Disclaimer: If I owed them, they'd be locked in my closet and forced to dance for my amusement 24/7. As this clearly isn't happening (and believe me, I'd tell you if it was), I believe we can safely assume that I have nothing to do Dumas or his brilliant characters and stories.**

**Easter Sunday**

The sun shining through his windows was D'Artagnan's cue to get up for the day. He would, of course, have liked to spend one of the days that he had off from his duties with Monsieur Dessessarts sleeping in and relaxing, but even after rolling over and covering his face with his pillow, that proved to be an impossible task. With his room facing directly into the sun and his having forgotten to close the windows the night before, sunlight poured into his room, brightly illuminating every surface in sight. Even if the sound of Porthos walking downstairs, which D'Artagnan had at first believed to an earthquake when he moved, or the silent shuffling of Aramis in his room that D'Artagnan could sense behind the bedroom wall, had not kept him awake…he would still have to get out of bed to close those blasted windows. So, despite the fact that it was an early Sunday morning and he would've liked nothing more than a little extra sleep, D'Artagnan shoved himself out of his bed, ran a hand through his messy brown hair and glared at the door as though it might wither and rot away from the sheer power of his gaze.

When he stepped into the hall, however, it was a different matter entirely. Somewhere from downstairs, there came the most heavenly smell of freshly baked bread. Aramis met him just outside his own bedroom door, brushing off invisible specks of dirt from the knees of his trousers and straightening his clothes. D'Artagnan could tell from his somber expression and the offensive dirt that D'Artagnan really couldn't see on his clothes that Aramis had just come from a session of prayer at the small altar that he had devised in his room. This should not have surprised D'Artagnan, he supposed, given Aramis' past a priest. Still, in the few months that he'd shared the apartment with him, D'Artagnan had never set foot out of his room before Aramis had, and he'd never seen him preening himself so carefully. "Good morning, D'Artagnan," Aramis greeted him in his usual gentle manner. "I see you're up earlier than usual. Do you have plans for the day?"

D'Artagnan's response did not involve words because he was still too much asleep to be able to form them. Instead, he answered Aramis with a bleary eyed scowl that clearly said no, he did not have plans, and he didn't intend to make any. Aramis smiled at him, amused at his state, and turned to walk through the small hall to the stairs with D'Artagnan stumbling along behind him. When they reached the bottom of the stairs and found themselves in the small front room of the apartment, they both paused to survey the scene before them. Porthos, impeccably dressed in his usual splendor, stood at the table and looked through a wicker basket of…_eggs?_ D'Artagnan eyed the colorful little objects warily, wondering if he was actually seeing them correctly or if he had perhaps gone mad in the night. Better yet, he decided, maybe he was still asleep and this was all just part of a dream. "I'm telling you, look at these!" Porthos boomed merrily. D'Artagnan cringed slightly at the sound and wished that he hadn't fallen for that duel the giant had challenged him to the previous night—he'd quickly realized that fighting Porthos to the death was a healthier, far more preferable way to die than trying to drink him under the table. "They're beautiful! Such art! Such craftsmanship!"

"It's an egg," Athos stated dryly before taking a sip of his wine. Ever the realist, he did not see what Porthos was getting so worked up about. So some mad street vendor had decided to waste a basket of perfectly good eggs by squiggling strangely colored lines on them. It was not, for example, a finely pressed wine from the south of France that had been lovingly preserved to enhance its flavor. An egg was hardly anything to write home about.

"Athos, I've said it before and I'll say it again," Porthos told him disapprovingly. "You have no taste, no sense of style! This is a work a genius. A fine piece of art for my collection. And even if you can't appreciate it, I'm sure Aramis and D'Artagnan will see it for the beauty that it is." He proudly turned to his two friends who had just arrived. "Well?" Aramis looked at the eggs with a confused expression while D'Artagnan's face twitched as he tried to decide what he thought.

"Uhh…" D'Artagnan murmured, taking a step forward to inspect them further. "Where did they come from?" he asked, poking at the basket timidly. Athos smiled slightly at the boy's reaction and shared a look with Aramis, who passed the basket by completely and took a seat to help himself to some breakfast. Porthos, clearly not happy with Aramis' reaction, chose to ignore him and turned his attention fully to D'Artagnan, who was staring at a brightly colored pink and yellow egg as though it were a carrier of the plague. Which it might be, D'Artagnan thought. Maybe _that's_ why it was so colorful.

"From my good rabbit friend, of course," Porthos explained. Athos groaned and Aramis let out a quiet sigh, though Porthos continued as though neither of these things had happened. "Comes to visit me every year. What's his name, again? E.B.? Or was it Harvey?" Porthos had a puzzled expression for a long moment as he desperately tried to grasp for the rabbit's name.

"A….rabbit?" D'Artagnan asked slowly. Porthos grinned broadly and nodded his head. It was then that D'Artagnan decided if this really was a dream, he should really stop drinking.

"He comes to see me every year. Nice fellow, large ears," Porthos told him confidently. So confidently, that D'Artagnan wasn't sure whether he was just telling tall tales—with large ears—or whether he was actually serious. "Of course, he is English and he's a bit odd. Wears this checkered pattern tunic and carries around these two sticks."

"….he talks?" D'Artagnan needed clarification. A _lot_ of clarification. Porthos continued to grin and slapped D'Artagnan on the back as though it were the most wonderful in the world. "And he's…English?" Porthos quickly began to frown.

"Now, don't you get started about that," Porthos warned him gently. "Just because his English, that isn't something to hold against him. After all, it's not his fault he wasn't born in France." Porthos' look was so stern that D'Artagnan couldn't face it anymore. He glanced to Athos and Aramis desperately, hoping for something, _anything_, that made a little sense. Had Porthos lost his mind? Was he hallucinating? And where had those eggs come from? And…

"…why?" D'Artagnan managed to choke out, though he wasn't sure how long had passed before he did. Porthos, his enthusiasm high, opened his mouth to explain everything before he paused suddenly and began to look confused.

"Well…" Porthos began, but as hard as he tried to come up with an answer, he found himself to be a little…stumped. Athos swirled his glass of fine wine—a specialty for a special occasion—and decided to put poor Porthos out of his misery by way an explanation.

"Easter." And he very succinct in doing so. Porthos' face immediately lit up. That was it! Now how could he have forgotten that?

"Yes!" he exclaimed. He froze and then turned quickly to Aramis, letting out a low chuckle. "Eh, which one is Easter again?" To Aramis, who had dedicated most of his life before he became a musketeer to the study and practice of theology, this was an appalling question. As this was the Sabbath, however, and Porthos had long been a very dear friend of his, he didn't press the issue and answered him.

"Easter is the celebration of the resurrection," Aramis told him sternly. "It's an important religious holiday. And hardly an affair for eggs." Porthos missed Aramis' last statement and instead responded to his first.

"I thought that was last month," Porthos boomed. "I remember it well—there was wine and singing—"

"That was St. Patrick's Day," Aramis told him, his voice short. Porthos didn't seem to understand Aramis' tone or why he was contradicting him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Porthos told him with a dismissive laugh. "We don't celebrate St. Patrick's Day in France. It's a Germanic holiday."

"It's Irish," Aramis told him. Porthos shot him a glare at being corrected. It was hardly good form to correct a man like Porthos in front of an impressionable boy like D'Artagnan. Why, Porthos could already tell just by looking at his face that his new friend didn't understand what was going on. He would have to talk to Aramis about it later. In the meantime…

"Even so," Porthos continued, "St. Patrick's Day is in February. Remember, there was all of that wine and the chocolate—"

"That was Valentine's Day," Athos corrected him. _He_ remembered it well. D'Artagnan had an appointment to meet Constance after his duty rounds and Aramis and Porthos were….well, Athos wasn't sure where they were, but he knew they weren't at the house sharing his wine and that was all he needed to know. Porthos pondered Athos' words for a moment before letting out a low, slightly perverted sounding chuckle as he stared off into the distance somewhere.

"Valentine's!" Porthos repeated. "That would explain the women." Athos looked disgusted at this statement, Aramis looked away innocently and D'Artagnan simply felt lost.

"So you're saying that every year on Easter Sunday, someone—"

"Rabbit," Porthos corrected D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan simply stared at the giant for an indiscernible amount of time before correcting himself according to Porthos' wishes and continuing.

"A rabbit," D'Artagnan began again. "Brings you a basket of eggs." Porthos beamed at the young man.

"That's right," Porthos confirmed, clutching his basket of eggs proudly. D'Artagnan continued to stare.

"And this is…normal?" he asked. "For celebrating Easter?" As D'Artagnan was from the country and had grown up on a farm, he'd had little time as a boy to observe holiday traditions. In fact, he hadn't know Easter was coming at all, just as he hadn't expected Valentine's Day or any number of the holidays that Porthos always seemed to be ready to celebrate. That being so, he was a bit mystified about the traditional ways of celebrating Easter…and he hoped that wasn't it. He looked to Athos and Aramis hopefully, receiving a frown from the latter.

"That is simply Porthos' particular…" Aramis resisted using the word 'condition'. "Tradition. I will spend the day in prayer and reflection at Notre Dame Cathedral, as I did during my time as a young priest before I worked in the convent." Three sets of eyes deliberately avoided looking in Aramis' direction at the closing half of that statement, but Athos did smile into his cup of wine as he took another drink. The three friends' reactions were not lost on Aramis, though he didn't acknowledge it. "Athos,"

"Prayer and reflection," Athos declared, holding up his cup of wine. Expensive and full bodied prayer and reflection, he thought to himself, but it was an important holiday and he simply refused to be anything less than reverent in his observance. Aramis frowned at his friend's words but chose not to say anything, where Porthos frowned and leaned toward Athos in puzzlement.

"But Athos, isn't that what you do for every holiday?" the giant asked. Athos simply glared at Porthos in return. Porthos might have been bothered by the look on his friend's face, if only he'd had the ability to tell his various expressions of dismay and annoyance apart. As it was, they looked exactly like his normal expression. Aramis cleared his throat and turned to their young friend, who stood by Porthos and looked at that moment as though he'd just seen a ghost.

"So, D'Artagnan, what is it you have planned to do on this Easter day?" Aramis asked, drawing the attention of Athos and Porthos. D'Artagnan stood at Porthos side, feeling himself shrink smaller and smaller as six eyes looked at him expectantly. He wanted to say something grand, something important and meaningful, but between the excitement of Porthos and his own deep confusion, the only thing that D'Artagnan could manage to say was what he'd planned to do in the first place.

"Sleep," D'Artagnan answered. There was a shared silence as Athos, Porthos and Aramis watched him, considering his words. D'Artagnan was sure he could hear the sound of a cricket chirping lightly in the corner, the seconds seeming to pass as minutes before anyone made a sound.

"A fine plan," Porthos said first.

"You deserve some time to rest after working so hard in your duties," Aramis told him agreeably.

Athos said nothing, but D'Artagnan had come to understand the tipping of his cup in the boy's direction to be a sign of approval. With that, Athos took a long drink, savoring the flavor of an exquisite year. Aramis stood up, apparently no longer interested in breakfast, and informed his friends that he would be back in time for dinner before heading out the door. Porthos appraised his young friend and sternly turned him back in the direction of the stairs, nudging him to return to bed. D'Artagnan nearly fell from Porthos' nudge, but desperate to escape back to his room, he righted himself quickly and continued to the steps. He was just about to take his first step up the stairs when he was suddenly stopped by Porthos. "Ah, just a second, boy. I nearly forgot!" Porthos said worriedly. He walked over to him and, still clutching his basket of eggs, he reached into the basket for an intricately decorated one and reverently handed it to D'Artagnan. "Happy Easter." Porthos then turned back to the table and set his basket down to examine the contents again, grinning like school boy as he did so. D'Artagnan stood at the bottom of the steps and looked down at the brightly colored egg in his hand.

Oh yeah. He _definitely_ had to stop drinking.

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><p>Remember, reviews are love and I will add you to my list of people I'll adore for the rest of my life. As to this Easter Sunday, whether you celebrate with a fine wine like Athos, spend your days in prayerful reflection (as long as there aren't any nuns nearby) like Aramis, eat chocolate candies and decorate eggs like Porthos, or prefer a simple, low key weekend like D'Artagnan...may you have a lovely weekend.<p> 


	3. A Vegetarian Tuesday

The sad thing is that I now have about four stories started for this that are halfway to mostly finished, but I keep hitting a point where I just lose my footing with it and have to take some distance from it. Does this ever happen to anyone else, or am I just a very lucky girl?

In any case, more silliness here for your reading pleasure. This one actually came about from a conversation I was having with some friends of mine. Easter weekend, I happened across something in my yard that killed whatever latent desires I had to continue eating meat and I resolved to go vegetarian. So I was talking to a couple of my friends who've successfully managed around seven years meat free for advice and recipes that don't involve soy (because I'm allergic). Let's just say that I've been just like Porthos and D'Artagnan in the past and I definitely got a lot of good advice yesterday.

**Disclaimer: Okay, you caught me. I own them. They all belong to me. I was close friends with Alexandre Dumas. I was deeply involved in the creation of the films. Milla and I are shopping buddies. Logan calls me _all the time._ I'm secretly dating Luke Evans. So go on, now. Be jealous. It's okay, I give you permission.**

A Vegetarian Tuesday

Tuesdays had never been D'Artagnan's favorite day of the week. Ever since he was a boy, Tuesday was always the one day of the week which he despised and wished to avoid altogether. That particular condition, he reflected, had only gotten worse upon his arrival in Paris. His first Tuesday, he had been robbed. His second Tuesday in the city, he had the misfortune of walking directly underneath a window just as something wet and rather foul smelling that D'Artagnan could not identify was dumped from an ugly colored pot. He spent the following week drenched in that same foul smell, despite his many attempts to wash it off, until his third Tuesday—which he mostly couldn't remember, thanks to the wine Porthos brought home. He woke Wednesday morning to find himself not wearing his trousers, in the arms of not one but three wenches from Porthos' favorite tavern, and with the words 'I love Buttercup' tattooed in exquisitely written Spanish across his chest.

He was elated to find that he no longer smelled of the foul substance, at least. The wenches' perfume was actually pleasant, he thought.

It was the fourth Tuesday of his time in Paris when D'Artagnan returned from his rounds under Monsieur Dessessart, accompanied by the venerable Athos, dropped his effects unceremoniously by the door and collapsed into the nearest chair. He determined at that moment not to move until after dinner and, having had a tiring but not necessarily bad day, refused Porthos' entreaties to enjoy a nice cup of wine so as to avoid ruining what D'Artagnan considered his good luck. He even went so far as to fall asleep in that chair, in an extremely uncomfortable position.

He woke exactly two hours later, startled by a curious tickling sensation under his nose and the sound of Porthos slamming himself down in a chair. D'Artagnan jumped awake, resisted a sneeze and eyed his friend through tired eyes.

"All right, sirs," came Planchet's voice from the kitchen. "Dinner is served." And Planchet had to admit, as he walked from the kitchen to the next room with plates of food balanced carefully on both arms, he had really outdone himself this time. He padded across to the table and set down the plates of food, smiling in satisfaction at their arrangements. "Now I've—why, young sir, what's that on your hand?" Planchet asked, frowning as he looked pointedly at D'Artagnan's left hand. Noticing Porthos' suspicious grin, D'Artagnan looked down at his left hand with a puzzled expression to find some sort of whipped, foamy white cream. Not too far from this view, he further found a small feather which had at some point been abandoned on the floor. Reaching for the nearest piece of cloth he could find to use as a napkin, he wiped his hand clean and fixed Porthos with a glare before pushing himself up in his chair to prepare for dinner.

"Planchet," Athos commanded the servant's attention as he eyed on the dishes.

"Oh, yes, sir?" Planchet responded, scowling at the cloth D'Artagnan used as a napkin.

"What is _this_?" Athos asked blandly, turning the plate just so to get a better view of it.

"Ah," Planchet returned with a smile. "I had a nice talk with a physician today at the market and I thought it might be nice if we all tried to eat a bit more healthy." Here, Planchet drew himself up, squaring his shoulders with pride. "So I've prepared an entirely vegetarian meal for tonight."

"Nonsense!" Porthos protested immediately. "I'm as healthy as an ox!"

"And when was the last time you saw a healthy ox?" Athos turned to ask him. Porthos ignored him with prejudice.

"Vegetarian?" D'Artagnan asked, obviously puzzled.

"It means to abstain from the practice of eating meat," Aramis supplied sagely, turning his own plate just so and silently debating how best to approach this new development. Porthos scoffed loudly at this comment, clearly not supportive of the issue.

"Well, that's all well and good, but where's the lamb?" Porthos demanded, thumping the table with his hand. Planchet turned to him happily.

"There isn't any," he replied.

"Lamb is a kind of meat," Aramis told him. Athos couldn't stop the slight smirk from showing on his face at Porthos' reaction to this news. Neither, he found, could Aramis.

"Fine, then where's the steak?" Porthos asked with a growl. At this, Planchet's elation seemed to begin to fade.

"We-well, there isn't any, sir," came Planchet's response.

"Steak is from cow," Aramis told him coolly. "Another meat."

"Well, what about the pork?" Porthos returned quickly with a scowl. Clearly, he was not enjoying this new idea of Planchet's.

"Pork is from pig," Aramis said simply.

"Then bring out the bacon!" Porthos demanded loudly. Planchet had begun to tremble slightly, Athos and Aramis were both amused, and D'Artagnan looked deeply confused as he eyed something green on his plate.

"Bacon is also from pig," Aramis told him serenely. Porthos glared at him.

"Sausage!"

"Pig."

"Pepperoni!"

"Pig."

"Salami!"

"Pig.

"HAM!"

"Also pig." Aramis was clearly a fountain of information on the subject—something Porthos did _not_ appreciate. At last, he huffed and turned back to Planchet.

"_All right!_" Porthos declared in defeat. "If you're so determined to do this vegetarian thing, then at least bring out the frog legs." Athos had begun to get frustrated as he watched the scene over his cup of wine, Aramis was eternally patient with his good friend and D'Artagnan was reaching out to touch the mysterious green thing on the plate tentatively.

"Frog legs," Aramis began simply—he didn't want to confuse poor Porthos anymore than he already seemed to be. "Are made from frogs—a meat."

"You do understand the concept of a vegetable, don't you?" Athos asked with a skeptical look. Porthos, however, looked positively scandalized at this new information and didn't hear Athos at all.

"_**No meat**_?" Porthos asked with horror in his voice.

"None," Aramis told him, happy to provide his friend with this knowledge.

"I think that's been established," Athos said drily.

"I think it moved," D'Artagnan whispered as he watched the unidentified green thing carefully.

"It's spinach," Planchet told him, feeling a bit of his lost pride returning to him.

"Spinach?" D'Artagnan asked as though he had never heard of such a thing before in his life.

"It's a green, leafy vegetable high in iron and fiber," Aramis explained, and Planchet was practically glowing with joy.

"Then what's the brown thing?" Porthos snapped. _He_ was no fan of spinach.

"Tofu," Planchet told him, as if it were the most simple thing in the world.

"Tofu?" Porthos responded. "Tofu? What the _hell_ is tofu?"

"It's a paste made from soy beans," Aramis provided, earning a scowl from his friend.

"There's also seitan—" Planchet was interrupted quickly.

"Say-who?" Porthos asked incredulously.

"Seitan," Planchet repeated.

"It's made from wheat," Aramis said. Porthos' expression did not improve. "You do know what wheat is?"

"Of course I know what wheat is!" Porthos snapped. Athos and Aramis did not look convinced and became even less so when Porthos turned to D'Artagnan conspiratorially and asked, "Quick, boy—what's wheat?" D'Artagnan's response, however, was less than satisfactory.

"I think it's watching me," he whispered. Porthos took a long look at the green, leafy vegetable and couldn't help but agree. The spinach was, indeed, watching him.

"And that is eggplant, if I'm not mistaken, Planchet?" Aramis asked. Planchet smiled at him, glad that at least someone was able to identify _something_ on the table.

"Most excellent, sir. It's eggplant with basil," Planchet told him happily.

"Well done, Planchet," Aramis congratulated him. Planchet couldn't believe his joy and practically danced his way out of the room. Aramis' companions had a rather different view on the subject.

"Well done, Planchet?" Porthos asked. "Well done? We have spinach and tofu, and 'well done, Planchet'?"

"There are also lentils and grain patties," Aramis added, nodding to the food in question.

"Lentils and grain patties," Athos repeated. He swirled the wine in his cup and eyed Aramis critically. "You do seem to be taking to this well," he said curiously.

"Hardly," Aramis responded calmly. "I simply don't want Planchet to suspect anything when we sneak up behind him and have D'Artagnan hold him down for us."

Athos, seeing the wisdom in this, nodded in agreement and took another sip of his wine in preparation. Porthos, never one to be left out, straightened his doublet. Expectantly, the three turned to D'Artagnan, who at that moment was busy stabbing the offending spinach vehemently with a fork in the act of brutally murdering it. A moment later, he let out a loud yell of triumph. "Death to spinach!" And with that, the four shared a knowing look before pushing away from the table and walking toward the kitchen to deal with Planchet. D'Artagnan later reflected that as Tuesdays went, his had ended bizarrely, but not badly, and he considered this perhaps the end of his unlucky streak.

On his fifth Tuesday, D'Artagnan had to explain to Constance just who Buttercup was and why he had her name tattooed across his chest.

* * *

><p>Reviews aren't necessary, but should you review I will build a shrine in your honor and offer worship of freshly baked cookies and key lime pie. Okay, not really, but I will love you forever and think about you the next time <em>I<em> have freshly baked cookies and key lime pie...which is really almost as good, right?


	4. Spring in the City

I wrote this one with little effort and even less sleep, but anyone who has an allergy to pollen will definitely be able to appreciate it. I've never hated spring so much until the lawn mowing started...

**Disclaimer: Yes. I did it. It was me. I shot a man in Reno and I'm on the run from the law. But you can't tell anyone. There's no telling what might happen if they find me! They think I'm responsible for both of the deaths, but it's just not true! I shot the sheriff, but I didn't shoot the deputy! Honest! ...oh wait, this is a disclaimer...  
><strong>

Spring in the City

Spring had sprung in the city of Paris and it was quite the beautiful sight. The sky was clear, the sun shone into every crack and cranny, the wind blew a gently warm breeze into every window and it was generally agreed among the people to be a welcome change after the harsh winter that had just passed. Indeed, on that first day of spring, there was not a soul who didn't arise early, throw open their windows and stretch their arms out to the sky in appreciation of this new season…except one.

D'Artagnan was never fond of waking early, so it was that on that first day of spring he decided to sleep in as he no obligations that morning. Later that day, he was to report to Monsieur Treville in the hopes of leaving his service to Monsieur Dessessarts behind. Certainly, the lovely Lady Constance was to receive a visit from the young Gascon as he escorted her through the city's square in an effort to further his courtship of a young mademoiselle he had become quite fond of during his time in the city. It was around noon, then, that the young man from Gascony rose from his bed, stretched out his arms to the sky in appreciation of a new late morning (or early afternoon, depending on one's perspective), and at last threw open his window to let in the day.

Even _he_, who had been raised so close to the beauty of nature and wide open country, had to admit that the city had certainly come alive after a deep sleep. The people were out, flowers and trees bloomed and their scent carried on the soft breeze to greet him with a warm welcome as though he were a long lost friend. He closed his eyes and they embraced for a long moment before he turned to get himself ready for the day. He had only taken two steps, however, before he began to sneeze.

* * *

><p>For Aramis, it had been a rather different experience. Always an early riser, he had woken before even the sun and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He left his bed, knelt before the altar he had carefully made in his room and said his morning prayers, as had been his custom since his early days in the seminary. He stood, dressed for the day, paced quietly down the steps in his usual cat-like manner and helped himself to a simple breakfast of porridge, a piece of fruit and a cup of wine. Once this was completed, he straightened his doublet and preened one last time before leaving the house. He was quite busy that day—though not handing out tickets, as one might expect. It was, of course, part of his daily routine, as any man's job might be, but it was quite another matter with which his mind was occupied.<p>

Her name was Monique and she was stunning. Her long raven hair was a bed of curls, her almond colored eyes shone brightly in the morning sun and her lips were peach colored and soft to the touch. What Aramis found most delightful about this lovely lady, however, was not her hair. Neither was it her pretty eyes, nor perfectly shaped lips. It was her laugh, like delicate bells on a Sunday morning, delightful to hear in his ear as he whispered sweet little words in her own and left a trail of kisses down her neck.

They had found themselves in the gardens just outside her uncle's estate—an old friend of Aramis', who he often visited to discuss theology and philosophy—and, admiring a particular row of flower bushes, they found themselves in the shade of a set of flowering trees conveniently located in perfect sight of the beautiful garden and out of sight of _anyone_ else. It was at this moment that Monique became entangled in the arms of Aramis, Aramis became entranced with how the front of her dress gently traced across her collarbone, and both became lost in their love for nature. Specifically, they were lost between the cherry blossom trees, by the Daphne bushes and _in_ the Madonna lilies. It was quite romantic, actually, and as Aramis claimed Monique's lips with his own and began to show her his appreciation for the delightful writhing motion she'd begun just beneath him, he reflected that this had been a well chosen spot indeed.

And that was when he began to sneeze.

* * *

><p>Porthos had always been a man who could appreciate spring. He inhaled the scent of fresh blossoms, delighted in the sounds of children finally coming out to play and enjoyed the emerging spring fashion for both the lovely ladies of Paris and for himself. On that first day of spring, he woke to find Aramis gone, Athos already on his third drink, D'Artagnan still asleep and an appointment with one of his finer acquaintances at a local tailor within the hour. He dressed, he ate, he returned a glare or two to Athos in between punch lines and he was on his merry way.<p>

The suit, he found, was very much to his liking. It was dark blue and exquisitely embroidered for decoration with gold and silver threading and, just as the tailor had said it would, it brought out Porthos' more dashing side. He turned this way and that in the mirror, admiring the suit from every angle possible, and turned to fine lady friend who had accompanied him on this errand for her opinion. When she smiled at him prettily, her eyelashes fluttering seductively, he decided that yes, this suit was just right for him. He walked over to his companion and leaned down to give her a passionate kiss, before nodding his confirmation to the tailor. As soon as the new suit was paid for, the two left arm in arm and headed somewhere nice for lunch. There was a restaurant just down the street that his companion was quite fond of.

They were directed a table by one of the large windows that opened to show a small garden of vibrantly colored flowers. It was truly a beautiful sight and as they sat down and ordered their food, they paused to look into each others' eyes and clasp hands across the table at the perfect moment in which they found themselves. A waiter came over and filled their delicate glass goblets with wine. As soon as he left, they took up their goblets, raised them to each other elegantly and went to take a sip. It was at that moment that Porthos sneezed…and sneezed again…and coughed quite suddenly…and sneezed once….twice….three times more….

It was five full minutes before his sneezing fit calmed down and Porthos finally had a chance to realize that he had just spilled his goblet of wine all over his exquisite new suit.

* * *

><p>Athos sat inside with the doors and windows tightly closed. He did not like spring. He did not like flowers or the sound of children playing in the streets. He did not enjoy sunshine, nor rainy or snowy days. He had no lady whose affections he needed to see to or errands that needed to be run. He enjoyed neither the city nor the country and he paid no mind to the warmth or the chill. Indeed, Athos was inscrutable as he sat in the darkened room of his shared apartment and eyed his cup of expensive wine with a delicate bouquet. He had, he thought, everything he needed right there. For Athos, wine and solitude were always the order of the day and he tried to order as often as humanly possible.<p>

Planchet had long wandered off to see to whatever personal affairs a man such as Planchet has—Athos and his two companions had often debated whether a man such as Planchet ever had _personal affairs_ and had even taken bets on one or two occasions, though it was mostly a sport for rainy days when there was nothing to be done or no one to see—and Athos was left alone. He leaned back in his chair, enjoying the sound of silence he was often denied upon the return of his roommates. For Athos, spring represented one thing.

Peace and quiet as everyone finally ventured out of the house into the sunshine again.

So it was that on that first day of spring, he relaxed all the kinks out of his muscles and took a long drink of wine from the rather expensive stock he had just bought with the last of his money. It had seemed like a very serious price at the time, but Athos had carefully weighed cost versus quality and came to the conclusion that though it would take his every last sous, it was _very_ fine wine and the stock that he was buying was sure to last _him_ quite a few months. Provided, he thought, that he did not share, and he absolutely didn't intend to.

It was not until his third sip that his nose began to twitch curiously in a sensation that was completely foreign to Athos, and further not until his second cup that his throat became scratchy and felt as though it began to swell. Sensing something was deeply wrong, Athos tentatively set his cup aside and tested swallowing without any liquid. Something was bothering his throat to be sure, but what it could have been, he didn't know. As his eyes began to itch and his skin felt irritated, he realized much more importantly that his stomach felt…sour. As he stumbled from the room, he found himself in the long forgotten position of vomiting back up his wine and the completely new experience of sneezing with prejudice.

* * *

><p>Together, these four fine fellows sat in their misery, sneezing and coughing and blowing their noses, rubbing watery eyes that itched or skin that was red and inflamed with rash. They sneezed left and right, coughed into their sleeves and on each other, shared expletives and all manner of foul words in creative formations—of which the three old friends were impressed at the young Gascon's skills, though with him being a hotheaded youth from Gascony, they really shouldn't have been. Finally, after nearly two hours of this torturous peril in which our four heroes found themselves, a neighbor happened to pass by their apartment on her way home. Worried for the occupants (for they sounded in terrible health) and deeply worried for herself (well, she should hardly risk catching sick with little ones waiting for her at home), she immediately called for a physician to be sent to their apartment and hid in her own, with the windows shut tightly and the door bolted closed.<p>

None were in a state fit to answer the door, so upon his arrival, and hearing the commotion within, said physician took upon himself to enter. He was greeted by a chorus of sneezes, two coughs, one guttural hack of phlegm, a wheeze and swear word so foul that no one had ever heard it before and all planned to use it at least once in the immediate future. The physician was taken aback at this sight and as he brushed and cleaned various bodily expulsions from his clothes, he knew immediately what the problem was and set out to address it. His task was to calm them down and help them to manage these awful symptoms. All were given butterbur, an herb which they found brought some general relief. It took most of the afternoon before any found their symptoms calmed and the physician took that opportunity to explain the situation to them—they were all very allergic to the pollens that began to spread at spring. With the windows being opened, being out in the sunshine, rolling in the flowers, they had practically bathed in the substance, which had brought out their very severe reactions. It would take at least a day before their bodies had calmed down enough to venture out into the world again. Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan firmly resolved to lock themselves in their rooms and not step out until winter.

As to Athos, who had not stopped outside at all, the physician told that much of the wine being sold this season had already been contaminated by the pollen and to anyone with even a minor sensitivity to it, this could produce a very severe reaction much worse than what Athos had experienced. He was further directed not to drink any more of this wine—to which Athos grudgingly agreed so as to avoid any more misery—and was told that he may have to give up drinking entirely. His reaction to this was far less cordial and the physician was surprised to find that even through their sneezing, his three companions were able to hold him back when he leapt from the chair at the physician, shouting angrily. "YOU TAKE THAT BACK!"

It took most of the afternoon, after the physician had quickly exited, for them to completely calm down and being so worn out from the events of the day, they trudged to their beds and immediately fell asleep.

* * *

><p>Planchet returned to the apartment quite late. The sirs would angry at his long absence, he knew, but it was all in the name of love and therefore a wrath worth enduring. He had met the most wonderful girl with light brown hair and blue eyes, who seemed to be quite taken with him. He had spent most of the day with her, elated just to be around her, and they had had a perfect day in the flower market where he helped her sell the goods her family grew just outside the city. At the end of their day, when she had reluctantly had to leave him, she had gifted him with most beautiful bouquet of flowers he had ever seen in his life and Planchet had practically skipped home with the bundle of blooms in his hands.<p>

He opened the front door and stepped inside, curious to find the place empty, and as he apparently didn't need to see to his masters' needs, he immediately set about getting himself some food and a lovely cup of wine. He set the flowers down on the table delicately, smiling broadly to himself as he walked away.

Ten minutes later there came one, then two, then three…then a quick and violent succession of sneezes from the rooms just up the stairs.

* * *

><p><strong>Now, you may not know this, but I was talking to one of those doctors who specializes in dealing with allergies, and he was telling me that reviews are actually great for staving off allergic reactions. Can you imagine that? So...how are all of <em>you<em> handling this fine spring pollen?**


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